The story behind Denis Brodeur’s famous Summit Series photo

The story behind Dennis Brodeur's famous Summit Series photo

MONTREAL — The most famous sports photograph in Canadian history is, in fact, two mirror-image photos, and the story behind how Denis Brodeur’s breathtaking shot came to be is every bit as remarkable as the event it captures.

Taken 40 years ago Friday, the photo captures the joy and pain and disbelief of players in the climactic moment of more than a hockey series between two all-star clubs. This was an eight-game duel between Cold War political ideologies that, at its end, had torpedoed Canada’s smug claims of global hockey superiority.

In Brodeur’s photo, Canada’s jubilant Paul Henderson, having just scored what would be the game-winning, 1972 Summit Series-clinching goal, is bear-hugged by Yvan Cournoyer.

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Soviet goaltender Vladislav Tretiak is on his back, his right leg bent at the knee and his skate dug into the ice, a sixth Canadian puck unseen in the net behind him. At left, defenceman Valeri Vasiliev turns away from the goal; backchecking centreman Vladimir Shadrin, standing over Tretiak, looks helplessly over at rearguard Yuri Liapkin, who is grimacing either at this terrible event or because Cournoyer’s Sher-Wood is swinging close to his head.

The image is one of tens of thousands of photos taken over several decades by Brodeur, one of some 3,000 he took on that unforgettable trip to Moscow.

But this frame, the sixth in a series of 19 Nikon motor-driven images taken Sept. 28, 1972 at Luzhniki Palace of Sports, is the greatest shot of the Montreal native’s life.

And that includes any sentimentally grand photo he’s taken of his son, Martin, whom some would argue is the greatest goaltender hockey has ever seen.

“I could never beat this,” Brodeur said of his Moscow masterpiece. “I’ve taken photos of Martin with the Stanley Cup and his [2002 and 2010] Olympic gold medals. But I’ll never do better than my picture of Henderson.”

In fact, there are two nearly identical photos that exist of this goal: Brodeur’s and one taken by the late Frank Lennon of the Toronto Star.

Lennon’s image appeared the next day in his newspaper and was syndicated to The Canadian Press wire service for publication nationwide; it would win the 1972 National Newspaper Award for spot news photography.

Brodeur, who was working immediately beside Lennon that night, was in Moscow on his own ticket. He wasn’t on deadline, freelancing for maybe a half-dozen clients while shooting for a commemorative book to be published within days of the series finale.

He even was taking woman-in-the-street photos for Team Canada assistant coach John Ferguson, who would use those images for some work back home in the fashion trade.

The photos by Brodeur and Lennon are so similar, the action frozen a fraction of a second apart, that they’re often mistaken for each other.

In fact, Tretiak’s face is seen in the fifth frame of Brodeur’s series, as it is in Lennon’s shot, with Liapkin’s face partially obscured by his own stick.

The two photographers were not alone shooting the four games in Moscow. The late George Cree was there for The Gazette and Melchior DiGiacomo was on site for Sports Illustrated.

Brodeur recalls his old SI friend taking a puck in the head during Game 5, no protective screen in the rink corners, thus breaking his glasses and leaving him with just a single lens for Games 6, 7 and 8.

Brian Pickell also was in Moscow, shooting for Hockey Canada to produce a souvenir book titled Twenty-Seven Days In September.

But only Brodeur and Lennon captured The Goal.

Brodeur, whose day job included shooting action photos for Canadiens programs, covered Games 1 and 2 in Montreal and Toronto.

Yet he wasn’t even certain he’d get to Moscow, terribly ill with bleeding in his intestines just before departure. He was a nervous wreck, warned by many that the repressive Soviets likely wouldn’t let him return home with his film.

So Brodeur packed chocolate bars, lots of them, to use as calling cards and timely gifts.

“I always looked for somebody who smiled,” he said, often having to search hard. “I got friendly with one usher, gave him some chocolate, and he gave me good spots to shoot.”

And Brodeur grew friendly with a photographer from the newspaper Isvestia, who developed the visitor’s film in the newsroom’s darkroom in exchange for stories about Canadian goalie Ken Dryden and tips on Brodeur’s photo techniques.

It was early in the third period of Game 8 when it occurred to Brodeur he’d not yet shot Soviet coach Vsevolod Bobrov. So he left his spot and went to the other side of the rink, where he was when Phil Esposito pulled Canada to within a goal 2:27 into the period.

“I suddenly thought that Canada might tie,” Brodeur said, “so I rushed back to my previous spot and put in a new roll. The usher had waved me through, so the chocolate paid off.”

Ten minutes later, Cournoyer tied the game at 5-5. And with 34 seconds remaining, Henderson buried his historic winner.

Brodeur’s 35mm Nikon F, a sturdy camera a few years old, was pressed to his eye, and through the viewfinder he saw nothing with its shutter depressed, the motor-drive firing roughly three frames per second.

He was using fast black-and-white Kodak film that he pushed to its maximum to compensate for poor arena light, shooting 1/500th of a second with his 135mm lens wide open, its f/2.8 aperture yielding virtually no depth of field.

There was zero forgiveness with his focus at this setting; he’d be sharp or the images would be junk. And long before digital photography afforded instant review, Brodeur would know nothing until his film was dipped into developing chemicals at Isvestia nearly an hour later, he and his Soviet photo friend driven there post-game by a waiting chauffeur.

“I thought I had the shot,” Brodeur said. “But my fear was that the best photo was not taken at all, during the instants the motor drive advanced the film.”

At Isvestia, he watched his ghostly images darken to life through the developing soup, his heart beating again. Nineteen grainy but tack-sharp images emerged, the final two of Team Canada’s post-goal celebration numbered 37 and 38 — the only time in Brodeur’s career that he shot a roll with more than 36 frames wound onto it.

“I showed the pictures to Gilles [Terroux, co-author of their book], but I don’t think at the time I realized how good they were,” he said. “So many things could have gone wrong to ruin the sequence, but everything went A-1.”

Forty years later, the negatives remain in superb condition. This, despite Brodeur having almost forever packed them on trips and family vacations.

“They went everywhere with me. I was afraid of their being lost if the house caught fire,” he said. “And now I wonder, what if my car had been stolen? It’s crazy.”

And in the 40 years since that night at the Luzhniki Palace of Sports, Brodeur says he might recall having spoken to Henderson just once, a passing hello at the Montreal Forum. And he’s not even certain of that.

“Through a friend, Paul has signed a 16×20 of my photo for Martin,” Brodeur said. “There have been a few times Paul and I were invited to the same function, but it’s never worked out. And that’s too bad, because I’d have enjoyed talking to him.”

That in itself is a remarkable footnote to the story of two lives defined and linked by a timeless, classic snapshot:

A national hero and the photographer who captured this player’s pinnacle are joined by just a thread of black-and-white photographs, bonded in still life without even a handshake.